


Better than I found it

by thornwhipped



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Fantastic Racism, Grief/Mourning, Self-Acceptance, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-03 01:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15808347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thornwhipped/pseuds/thornwhipped
Summary: He's still here with us.





	Better than I found it

The sad thing is that he should really be used to it by now.

It's a tavern like any other, some pit stop place on the road that boasts a roof over his head and something liquid on tap. They might vary considerably in the decor, the noise, the quality of the alcohol, but at the end of the day, Fjord has found, all taverns are alike.

There's spots to place yourself when you don't want to be bothered and spots that give the best view of the room, spots closest to the escape routes and spots closest to the fire.

And no matter what each tavern has or what it lacks, all of them come with people who can't seem to mind their fucking business.

What gets to him is that it's the human man who looks offended. Like it was something that Fjord did, by coming in here and paying for a beer, that caused an upset. Like his presence pushes into places it shouldn't. Too big, too wide, taking up too much room. His whole being worthy of an apology through – ha – clenched teeth.

It's harder without the rest of the Nein there. That's the difference. Fjord can't believe how quickly he's gotten used to the armor that provides. Among them, for maybe the first time in his life, he's just a face. He doesn't look out of place when he's part of such an odd, colorful bunch. Well. His drink tastes sour. Less colorful now.

_"And a lot of them treated me with deep disrespect."_

It's in his head, suddenly, the unfairness of it. And then the image of Molly's horns all decked out and glittering. Him putting all of it on every morning while Fjord donned his armor. The way it clinked and flashed every time he turned his head. Drawing the eye with not an ounce of subtlety. It couldn't be clearer that this was someone who wouldn't waste a single breath on apologizing for how he was made.

Fjord finds himself leaning forward, one elbow on the bar like he's talking to a friendly acquaintance, not a stranger whose mother didn't teach him not to stare. He feels his smile turn perfectly, dangerously charming.

"Excuse me, sir," he says. His accent is pitch-perfect, solid and smooth, and it's ringing loud enough to cut through a lull in the conversation, dropping into that brief pause like a stone, "do I have something on my face?"

Maybe it's something about the way he says it, accusatory in the way that goes along with this persona, each word bitten off poisonously polite. Whatever it is, the human is pitching backward as he's addressed, flustered, out of his depth now that someone has called attention to his rudeness. He doesn't feel bad about being a shithead, of course. Fjord knows that. He's not been that naïve in a long time. But he feels bad about getting caught.

For a moment there it has the potential to get ugly, the human's face turning puce, furious at being shown up by someone lesser. But Fjord is wielding the politeness like a weapon, turning convention back at him, and the human folds. Leaves his beer half-empty and slinks away, letting Fjord drink in peace.

He raises his tankard in a salute that doesn't mean anything to the rest of the bar.

 

Later, when he heads back to his room, Fjord realizes that he's drunk. He doesn't like that, going any further than buzzed, because of the way it turns him genuine and vulnerable, all emotions close to the surface. He's had a lot of practice turning hot flame into cold, acting like his feelings don't surge up in him sometimes, and break over his head. He can't sleep in his mask, when he's this drunk. He doesn't need to, right now, but that's the problem.

The freedom of having his room to himself feels oppressive. It's just a room, as generic as the rest of the tavern with its straw-stuffed bed and single tiny window, but it looks like the air and the color have been drawn out of it.

Fjord sits down on the bed, and extends his hand, and the falchion _blinks_ into existence without pause. It seems to come from a place in him that isn't touched by alcohol or by grief.

The golden blade reflects his face when he holds it up, like a blurry mirror. He studies the section he can see. Tries to picture himself so decked out in gold that no one could pretend not to notice him, that the stares he caught would be stunned by the flash. It doesn't work.

His lower lip is sore. Growing pains, he supposes, rubbed raw against the small sharp regrowths. He has to learn his own face all over again.

Fjord flashes his most charming smile at his reflection, almost believing it. He thinks about another grin full of teeth that looked like weapons. About how it was the most disarming thing he'd ever seen.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic walks a fine line for me, because I want to emphasize what each of the Nein gained from Molly without making his death seem "inspirational" or more meaningful than it was. This is about what he gave them when he was alive.
> 
> (Mollymauk Tealeaf is not an expert, and his advice should not necessarily be followed.)


End file.
